


Kissing Stalking

by QueenHusband



Category: ARMS (Video Game)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, Non-Consensual Groping, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26417506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenHusband/pseuds/QueenHusband
Summary: Fed up with the mad scientist's growing obsession, Twintelle begins to employ some drastic countermeasures.|please read the tags|
Relationships: Dr. Coyle (ARMS)/Twintelle (ARMS)
Kudos: 3





	1. The Stalker

**Author's Note:**

> i literally dont know a lick of French, so please excuse it lol i also know nothing about how laboratories or production studios operate, and it probably shows, so pls also extend ur suspension of disbelief before reading. thank you! :)
> 
> also the title is a play on words of a certain popular webtoon we all know. this wont be nearly as traumatic, promise

Machines whir silently in the background as a woman sits hunched over a desk, haphazardly fisting scattered stacks of paper and groaning. Fools. All of them--utter fools. How difficult can it be to obtain a few measly strands of hair? Does she really have to do everything herself?! Her anger bubbles to a boiling point until finally--calm. Like a ripple expanding into nothing, the waters of her mind are completely flat, and in them, the reflection of an obstinate little actress stares back at her. Down at her.

A knock at the lab door quickly disperses that illusion. "Umm... Dr. Coyle, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" the small voice of none other than Mechanica floats into the room, the door pushing open despite the delayed response. The little tinkerer is squinting in the darkness, but she doesn't flick on the light. She knows better than that.

"What do you want?" Dr. Coyle finally answers. She's resigned to not getting anything done this evening, anyway.

Mechanica takes a moment to nervously adjust her glasses. "I was told to give this to you, but um..." The young girl pauses, appearing distinctly uncomfortable. "Are you sure you should be doing this? Isn't it a _little_ \--"

"Hand over the file," snaps the doctor with an open palm over her shoulder, not looking back. She is wholly uninterested in whatever tired quibbles the young one might have. If Mechanica truly takes issue with her methods, then their symbiotic relationship ends here. On some level Mechanic understands this, because although she wavers by the door a few seconds longer, she ultimately gives in and lightly taps the paperclipped documents into the doctor's hands. Mechanica bruises her lower lip a moment longer, as though literally chewing back her criticisms, before finally ducking out of the room.

Dr. Coyle slaps the documents onto the desk in one swift motion, her eyes laser focusing on the bold prints. Random papers scatter to the floor but she couldn't care less. Her stony gaze warms with the smug satisfaction that indeed she will do everything herself.

For the next four months, Monday through Friday, 6 am to 10 pm: back-to-back rehearsals, choreography, workouts, diet plan...

"What a busy little bee you are," the doctor hums. She checks the time on the nearest laptop: 21:38. The next instant she stands abruptly, assembling the scattered paperwork into some sort of chaotic order, then flips shut all the laptops. In complete darkness she traverses to the back storage room-turned bedroom--it has literally nothing but a narrow cot and a coat hanger--and collapses onto the hard mattress. For the first time in years, Dr. Coyle turns in early for the night.

She'll need to be up extra early to catch this particular worm.

-0-

The next morning, at 4 am sharp, Dr. Coyle's eyes snap open as her body shoots up. Her heart thrums in her chest a brief moment at the ridiculous notion she overslept, but just as quickly she deduces the opposite is true. Her body aches for sleep and truthfully she probably does need another hour or so, but her body will just have to wait. She grumbles under her breath as she struggles to get dressed, not bothering to freshen up because that can wait till the afternoon, and storms out the room to grab a cup of coffee and a cab.

It takes an hour from point A to point B after all, and she'd already wasted 15 precious minutes forging this ridiculous visitor's pass to Studio Rose.

Speaking of Studio Rose, quite frankly it's much smaller than Dr. Coyle anticipated. Nothing compared to ARMS Laboratories, but a grand waste of resources nonetheless. She snorts to herself, whipping on a pair of tinted glasses before stalking towards the building. The guards on duty are barely awake, waving her through at the flash of her visitor's pass without too much scrutiny. Incompetents aren't hard to find, she muses. It's eerily quiet and if she had an ounce of shame in her bones she'd probably cringe with guilty at the clicks of her heels bouncing off the walls. She's an infiltrator, after all. But aren't actors basically masters of charades? She feels she fits right in, in that regard.

Upon entering what appears to be an empty stage set, she tucks herself into a nice, shadowy corner. Just in time, too, because the next instant another pair of footsteps come clacking down the hall. For a moment her heart races in anticipation of her prey, only--it's not. It's just some old man in a leather jacket with a styrofoam cup and sunken eyes, dragging his feet as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders. She scoffs to herself, big deal! How hard can your job possibly be? Dr. Coyle flicks her gaze to her wristwatch, almost groaning at the bright green numbers glowing back at her: 5:45. Why in the world hasn't that woman shown up yet? Are all actors this lackadaisical? Employees at ARMS Laboratories would never dare show up for work no less than an hour early. Fifteen minutes to go and still nothing but a couple of security guards and a janitor? Outrageous.

It's an entirely inexcusable THIRTY minutes before that familiar perfume permeates the air. Dr. Coyle isn't one for fancy fragrances, but even she can discern that crisp, flowery scent from the bargain brands most women typically wear. Twintelle sashays onto the set draped in a lavish teal gown that clings to her curves like a second skin, idly chatting with the old man about whatever irrelevant business their lot chattered about. Even at such an early hour, the younger woman is positively glowing, like a dewy flower just freshly opened to the morning sun. Dr. Coyle blanches at the frivolous thought that most certainly isn't hers. She must have read it in a magazine somewhere. Anyway--

" _Non non_ ," the French woman is seemingly arguing with the man now, hands on her hips for emphasis.

A few more people filter into the room, fiddling about with some admittedly decent looking equipment. Every time someone startles at seeing her, she simply flashes her fake badge, and eventually, they shrug and go about their business. Dr. Coyle spends the next hour leaned up against a wall with her arms crossed, eyes tracing those perfectly coiled locks of hair bouncing every which way. The pigtails spring about as though they have a life of their own--the doctor supposes that may be true. She could find out for sure, but... The more she watches, the more her fingers dig into her forearms, nearly ripping her sleeves.

"Cut!" the janitor--no--director, bellows from his highchair. The actors on stage are immediately swarmed by stagehands, adding more pomp and powder to the silly display.

What a monumental waste of time and effort. What is the point?

The next Grand Prix will be held a mere six months from now, and that woman chooses to idle away her time in front of the cameras--and for what? Unfathomable amounts of money fritted away on productions that do nothing to advance any field of significant study. All the actor has to do is pluck one or two hairs--preferably more--to submit for testing and it could very well lead to a breakthrough in ARMS research! Why does she have to be so stubborn? So _selfish_?

The increasing heat of her glares must have tickled the actor's senses because all of a sudden Twintelle is locking eyes with the doctor. Cool aquamarine meets flashing green in a moment of spiked tension. It's an intense batter of complex emotion that's nevertheless over in a split second as Twintelle proceeds to deliver her lines, smooth as butter. Dr. Coyle hates to admit she's impressed. Barely. Her lips twist into a smirk when Twintelle makes a beeline for her the moment the clapperboard snaps shut.

" _Salut?_ To what do I owe the pleasure?" Twintelle questions, arms akimbo, and more than an arm's length away. Her eyes briefly flick to the visitor's pass dangling over the doctor's chest, then back up. If she suspects its authenticity, her expression does not betray the thought.

Dr. Coyle couldn't contain the dark chuckle bubbling up her throat. "Who says I'm here for you?"

"Oh. Shall I find out who you're here for?" Twintelle raises a delicate brow.

Damn it. Dr. Coyle's smirk falters a tick, but she nevertheless keeps her chin up. "Settle down, princess. I won't be here long."

Twintelle opens her mouth to retort, but is promptly interrupted by someone calling her name. She hesitates a moment, her unreadable expression slipping into apprehension, before finally relenting to return to set. She did however make sure to watch the doctor slip quietly out the main exit.

Dr. Coyle waves off the guards on her way out, though they don't seem any more awake than they were hours ago. It doesn't matter if she's chased out because the pretty thing is scheduled to be at the gym in thirty anyway. Plenty of time for her to stake out a new hiding spot. Twintelle has a personal gym at home, but that's hours away, so the next best thing is her annual membership with the nearby Fitness Planet. This time, Twintelle arrives on the dot and wastes no time performing various stretches. Dr. Coyle watches discreetly from the tinted glass window outside at the intricate ways the actor's muscles bend and twist. Twintelle exhibited a great deal of flexibility and bounciness in her otherwise lackluster performance at last year's Grand Prix, so needless to say Dr. Coyle is somewhat interested to see exactly what workout routines facilitated such agility.

Twintelle expertly maneuvers through sporadic intervals of stepping stool exercises and weightlifting, even going so far as to work out her hair...muscles. Dr. Coyle makes a mental note to inspect the gym for stray hairs later. Twintelle is particularly fastidious in tidying up her workout area, but she's merely human. Surely she'll slip up somewhere.

It feels like an eternity before the young woman is once again on the move. Dr. Coyle manages to slip inside shortly after the woman steps out into a waiting car. She fully plans to explore the area Twintelle vacated but is stopped by a random employee. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Are you a member?"

It's annoying enough she has to deal with one uncooperative subject. Is everyone out to get in her way, today?! Dr. Coyle eyes the poor sap with clear disdain but somehow manages to restrain herself to a low growl. "I may be interested in one. Give me a tour of the facilities," she practically barks. The staff member stammers something, looking back and forth between her and their coworker, before hurriedly agreeing.

"O-Of course! Well, um, first of all, this area over here is for cardio--"

"I want to see this area first," Dr. Coyle jabs a thumb in the direction of the open room with all the lined with various weight lifting machines.

"Well--sure, we can start here," acquiesces the staffer who hurriedly follows the doctor into the room. The poor thing is jabbering on about the facilities but her sales pitch falls on deaf ears.

Dr. Coyle sweeps her clear green eyes over every single machine, searching for any sign of a shimmery white or pink thread and frustratingly finding none. Her temper is starting to flare with each passing moment until finally, she must admit defeat. "You call this a gym? Pah, pathetic." With a look of genuine disgust, she spins on her heel and storms out, completely ignoring whatever the staffers had to say. Another waste of time. No matter. She knows exactly where the actress is having lunch, right at this moment.

And so she spends the day in a fruitless pursuit, bouncing from one place to the next like a disgruntled pinball. The hours turn to days and days to weeks. Before she knows it, an entire month has flown by, and despite the fact Twintelle is most likely unaware she's even being tracked, the obstinate woman still refuses to leave behind even a trace of hair. Humans shed under/over 75 hairs per day and yet this greedy little thing refuses to part with even one. Perhaps it's a quirk of her unique ARMS ability? Perhaps the woman is now incapable of shedding and thus does not grow new hairs? Because otherwise, the density would become too great over time... Or she collects them religiously in some obsessive effort to keep it all for herself...

Dr. Coyle tracks her subject during the day and pours over her notes, photos, and video footage during the night. She's learning increasingly useless information she can't seem to discard--what the white-haired woman likes to eat, what she doesn't eat, her favorite stores to peruse, how she likes her massages, who she is on good terms with, where she lives, what movies she likes to watch...

Useless

Useless

Useless

USELESS

She doesn't even realize she's growling until Helix makes a high-pitched squeal of terror under her desk. She blinks a couple of times, the madness subsiding into a strange calm as she raises a brow at her creation cowering between her legs. "When did you get down there?"

Helix yowls something incoherent, to which she chuckles a bit. She still has to teach him how to talk... eventually. There's a time and place for everything. As much as her mood is soured by the lack of progress, she still needs to look over the data on the lab's latest experiments. She wasted enough time intel-gathering as it is and much as she hates to be a quitter, this month's progress report is rolling around and she has quite a bit to catch up on. She spends the next week or so buried in her actual work, though she still monitors some live feeds of Studio Rose in passing. She learns to sync up her previously non-existent breaks with when she knew that woman would be rehearsing. She's not sure what it is, but she has the distinct feeling she shouldn't tear her eyes away for too long or she'll miss something important.

On one such break, Dr. Coyle is pleased to see the actress uncharacteristically trip over her own dress and nearly take out a camera stand on the way down. Priceless. The doctor's eyes shimmer with a small warmth hidden amongst the malicious humor. She mentally records the exact date and timing of the footage for later use, before she gets back to work.

Mechanica no longer visits the doctor's personal room, apparently because of all the candid shots pinned to the walls. Helix has taken to popping in much more frequently.

-0-

It's another stressful but productive two weeks before Dr. Coyle has the free time again to engage with her side project. She's eager to get "back in the field" so-to-speak, but she's stopped on her way out of the labs by an overly concerned Mechanica. The girl looks positively constipated with her brows wrinkled together and eyes squinting. She's chewing her bottom lip in that way the doctor came to recognize as extreme discomfort. She can more or less guess what the girl wants but chooses to let her speak her peace anyway.

"Dr. Coyle, may I be frank with you? I--I think you're really taking things way too far," she stammers, not daring to look her contemporary in the eye. She's nervously gripping one arm in hand and there's a slight tremble to her words. "I-It's just a little..."

"Obsessive?" Dr. Coyle finishes in monotone. Mechanica looks down in shame as though they were talking about her behavior, and not her senior's. Dr. Coyle scoffs at the notion, rolling her eyes with her head tilted. "My student, nothing has changed. I'm not studying that woman out of pure fancy, it's for the sake of my research. You of all people should be able to understand that."

Mechanica sighs deeply, as though she fully expected that answer. This time her lavender-pink eyes meet Dr. Coyle's with renewed determination. "It's not just me who thinks so! Everyone does! This isn't normal."

" _Normal_?" Dr. Coyle repeats, the word dripping from her lips like venom. Since when has she ever been " _normal_ "? If she were " _normal_ ", ARMS laboratories wouldn't be anywhere near the success it is today! The Grand Prix wouldn't be near as Grand! People the world over wouldn't be clamoring for anything and everything ARMS. Her so-called Obsession is what brought the world of ARMS into hyper-focus-- _on a global scale_! What did this literal child know of obsession? Sure, Mechanica is incredibly gifted and hard-working, Dr. Coyle sees no problem in praising the young girl's raw talent. But if this child thinks she knows better than someone who's been in the field for decades--well, she may not be as small as everyone thinks.

"Dr. Coyle!" Mechanica calls after the older woman helplessly, but the doctor isn't listening.

-0-

Dr. Coyle pulls into the back of Studio Rose's parking lot, careful not to draw attention to herself as she pulls the driver's seat all the way back to make room for her laptop. It flips open and instantly a live feed of various angle shots inside the studio pop up on the screen. She's so wrapped up in her configurations she doesn't notice the shadow looming over her driver side window until the person loudly knocks it, making her literally jump in her seat. (She may or may not have screamed...)

There, on the other side of the glass, stood an irate Twintelle with her knuckles still hovering in the air. Her voice is muffled by the spacial separation but is no less clear and commanding, "We need to talk. _Tout de suite_."

To Dr. Coyle's credit, she didn't bother hiding her screen. She merely closes the laptop with all the calm in the world, sets it aside, and steps out of the car. Maybe a direct confrontation is the best approach after all. No more snooping around in the shadows. "Yes, we do," she states calmly. A pregnant pause settles between them as for the first time ever they are standing millimeters apart. Dr. Coyle can even feel the warm, little huff of air Twintelle releases in indignation.

Twintelle purses her lips, clearly frustrated with the older woman's complete lack of shame or decency. "I have had it with you. _Venez avec moi_!" Without a moment's hesitation, Twintelle snatches the doctor by the hand and drags her toward the studio.

Dr. Coyle's eyes widen at the sudden rough treatment, only now pinpricks of anxiety raising goosebumps along her back. "Excuse me?!" she says, completely disgruntled. There's the small fear in the back of her head the younger woman will try to get someone else involved--specifically someone with actual authority--but she still allows herself to be dragged past the guards, past the sparse early morning staff, and... into a single person restroom? Why in the world--

Twintelle roughly thrusts the doctor into the room, locking the door behind them.

Adrenaline kicks in as a wave of shivers run down the doctor's spine. To her elation, they're all alone in a secured room together. She couldn't ask for a better outcome!


	2. Down to the Knuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes were made.

Twintelle presses her back against the door and breathes in deeply, trying to gather her thoughts into some semblance of order until finally, she settles on, "Exactly how long did you plan on stalking me?"

There's a slight quiver to her voice because truth be told, she's nervous. She knows better than anyone how to deal with stalkers--it sort of comes with the territory of being a celebrity--and this clearly isn't it. However, this is no run-of-the-mill fanboy. This is someone with power. Resources. She couldn't simply finger the Director of ARMS Labs as a harasser, now could she? Not the sponsor of the world-famous Grand Prix. No one would believe her outside of some insiders who know the doctor's personality and Twintelle highly doubts they'd want to get involved.

No, Twintelle has no choice but to confront her directly.

Her magenta brows frown deeper as her stalker leans against the sink, eyes half-lidded and a smug grin stretching across her face. The older woman hums without answer, taking her time to appraise the other to which Twintelle fights the urge to cover herself with her hair. What in the world is this lunatic looking at? Green spiral eyes roam every inch of their target, such an intense gaze they leave trails of heat all along Twintelle's body. She shivers. She'd long assumed Dr. Coyle merely obsessed over her hair for research purposes--but perhaps that's not the whole truth? Perhaps the doctor actually...? No, it couldn't possibly be...

Dr. Coyle seems to take pleasure in watching her squirm. The older woman bides her time thinking, pushes off the sink to approach slowly like a tiger quietly stalking through the forest. "Exactly how long have you known?" she asks in a low voice.

If Twintelle could press herself into the door, she would. A familiar spark jolts across her skin that horrify her--because it's a sensation she definitely should _not_ be having right now. There's just something in the way the green-haired woman moves-- _prowls_ \--that's bizarrely enticing. She swallows thickly but manages to smooth over her expression into a neutral mask. "Long enough. If this is about my ARMS, I have already refused your request. Several times, in fact." 

Suddenly they're mere inches apart, Twintelle automatically folds her arms in a vain attempt to barricade herself. Her brow twitches but otherwise, she's a perfect facade of calm and collection.

The older woman, _that menace_ , on the other hand, does little to hide her emotions, taking another gleeful step forward so their noses are barely touching. Dr. Coyle slides both hands up against the door, effectively caging her prey. It's even more amusing to see the long coils of thick hair cower further together towards the middle of Twintelle's back. 

Twintelle's mind can't help but race in all directions--though one predominant thread pulls taut:

_She's in love with me. She's insane._

"You are being extremely rude right now, Dr. Coyle," Twintelle murmurs, for some reason unable to raise her voice. Her heart is thumping in her chest. It's so loud she's afraid it might echo off the restroom walls. This is strange. This is bizarre. She should be feeling wracked with fear--not... whatever this is. 

She shivers again as their breaths intermingle for the first time. This is not what she expected at all. Was this woman always so lascivious? It wasn't even an hour ago that Twintelle flew into a rage at this person. After all, the past two weeks or so felt like a blessing, not being watched anymore. The first cool droplets of rain in a parching desert. She was relieved because she no longer felt those eyes trailing her every move nor had she caught flashes of suspicious green. Her life had almost returned to normal. But the month-long stalking campaign took a toll on her psyche. Twintelle spent every day looking over her shoulder, half-expecting to catch the flap of a lab coat around a corner or that distinct clicking of heels. Dr. Coyle became a phantom who plagued even her dreams. 

So it's no surprise that, as Twintelle scanned the parking lot that morning, she caught sight of a familiar car. Something inside her snapped. She couldn't stop herself from marching over. She had no plans, no idea what she'd do about it all--just that she needed to take this into her own hands before things escalated.

Maybe that was the wrong decision because now her head is full of fog. Her emotions are running wild without her consent and in the completely wrong direction.

Twintelle is jolted back into the present by slender fingers lifting her chin. Her heart spikes in her chest, thrumming along at a punishing pace till she can feel warmth pooling into her cheeks. Thank God she didn't blush easily. "What do you think you're doing?!" she snaps, though damn it all if her voice didn't crack. 

"I don't like repeating myself," Dr. Coyle clicks her tongue in annoyance. Her eyes narrow to slits, seemingly no longer amused with the situation. Running out of patience. "I need you to cooperate."

"Ha!" Twintelle huffs directly into the woman's face in a harsh laugh. "Dr. Coyle, I'm afraid I cannot help you. We've been over this before. Non means non," she says with finality, pressing a palm against the woman's chest to put an inch or two between them, but the doctor doesn't budge. She's much sturdier than she looks--but that's to be expected from the woman who outmuscled Max Brass.

Dr. Coyle's face twists into something akin to pure anguish. She's borderline slipping into one of her signature petulant temper tantrums but holds onto civility by the skin of her teeth. "Just what do you have against me?"

"I... I have nothing against you? This is about my agency, Doctor."

"No, you definitely want to impede my research. Are you that afraid of losing? You'll never be champion anyway, it would benefit you so much more to contribute to our research. You may hold the key to an entirely new--"

"Stop," Twintelle slaps the hand away from her face, growing more and more agitated. 

Dr. Coyle growls, her hands pressing against the door on either side of the young woman's head. She takes another step so their chests are pressed together, her teeth gnashing like a wild animal. " _You're being childish._ " Her hands inch closer together, still pressed against the door.

Twintelle bites her lip, feeling her heart leap to her throat as heat spreads up her neck.

"Just give up."

The hands inch closer together. Twintelle panics. Closes her eyes and dips her head forward.

Dr. Coyle gasps before suddenly being cut off. Their lips and noses clumsily smoosh together, dry and warm. A bastardization of a kiss. The doctor is frozen in place as all arguments fall from her tongue down the back of her throat. Every thought in her brain simultaneously vaporizes as all her cells focus on the clumsy singularity of their lips brushing together. They kiss like idiotic middle schoolers with complete disregard for placement or common sense--until the gears in her head start turning again. She pushes herself away so hard she nearly falls flat on her ass. Green eyes wide with shock and her mouth gaping, sputtering for words. "A-A-Are you _crazy_?!" She shrieks loudly, not caring if anyone outside can hear or not.

Twintelle blushes furiously, only just now processing what she'd done. Even more so she's shocked at Dr. Coyle's response. "Me? What about you? You've been s-stalking me all this time?!"

"Me--I-- _No_. I had a reason. Why would you--how could you!"

"Don't act like you didn't want it!" Twintelle purses her lips, starting to feel a little insulted. That is until she notices the growing red flush blossoming on the doctor's cheeks. So embarrassing... A woman her age blushing like that! It's enough to bring a small, crooked smile to Twintelle's lips. "You liked it, didn't you?"

Dr. Coyle looks beet red and positively scandalized. "Absolutely not!"

"You are the one who got into my face, directeur," Twintelle tsks, finding her own confidence surging back with a vengeance as she advances on the doctor. She gets closer, adding an exaggerated sway to her hips with each step, and each step she takes is one the doctor takes backward until it's Dr. Coyle with her back up against the wall. Seeing the shocked and vulnerable look on the older woman's face sends a chill of pleasure down Twintelle's spine. She hasn't felt so elated in a long time--not since she'd won her last match. 

It's addictive.

"What are you doing," Dr. Coyle states rather than asks, blinking furiously at her "prey's" approach. It's not every day she feels cornered and she doesn't know how to handle it.

Twintelle flips a lock of hair aside, her gaze somehow melting hot and ice cold at the same time. She presses herself close up against her admirer, slyly running a hand up the woman's side and chuckling at the vibration her touch produces. She wants to burn a trail with her hands the same way Dr. Coyle burnt countless trails with her eyes. Over every inch. They lock eyes as Twintelle presses a chaste kiss to the corner of her lips. "You don't have to pretend. I know you're in love with me."

Dr. Coyle swallows as she realizes for the first time how her actions may have been...completely misinterpreted. It was not at all her intention to appear flirtatious. Actually, she thought she was being quite intimidating. How did things become like this?! She wants to protest, but her brain no longer seems capable of formulating words. Her body is heating up along with her quickening pulse, reactions that are familiar yet alien. She wonders briefly if this is really what she thinks it is. If Twintelle really intends to--

Whoa--The hand stroking her side suddenly slips to her waist and she actually jumps. 

"Please," her voice sounds completely estranged from her, soft and meek and pathetic.

"Please what?" Twintelle smiles sweetly. One hand caresses the doctor's soft cheek as the other undoes the buttons of her slacks. 

Dr. Coyle tries in vain to suppress the soft whine that fills the air. Disgusting. Fucking pathetic. UGH. She gasps as long, slender fingers lazily trace the seam of her underwear. Teasing. She can feel a sensation pooling below her stomach--an old, strange thing she thought he'd buried a long time ago. She wants to demand Twintelle cease this foolishness but the only thing leaving her mouth is shallow pants.

"Please what?" Twintelle asks again, softer, nuzzling into the woman's neck. Her fingers slide easily under the cotton material, gliding over smooth hair. She presses a gentle kiss under the woman's jaw, smiling against it at the needy sound she makes. She hasn't done this in a while. Forgot how sweet it is. Completely forgets how messed up this whole situation is. 

Dr. Coyle grips the young woman's shoulder the moment the first digit slips inside, unconsciously parting her thighs just a little further. If she had a shred of sense left, she'd use this opportunity to pluck out a hair or two. Curl it up in her fist and steal it away when all this is over. But her mind is emptying faster than her schemes could hope to keep up. She can't think of anything anymore besides the ache between her legs. Her entrance is becoming slick and already trecherously welcoming. The soft kisses to her neck melt into suckling. The finger inside her rubs small circles, experimental at first, feeling around. She resists the growing urge to push up her hips, to guide the intrusion in any way. 

"You're getting so wet," Twintelle hums against her neck, accent growing thicker. She uses her free hand to grip the doctor's hip and hold her in place. 

"Nng..."

"Hm?"

Twintelle continues to lick and bite, moving down to her collarbone, all the while setting a rhythmic stroke with her finger. Soft pants grow stronger, mingling in with soft moans. Slick fluid coats her entire middle finger starts wetting her knuckles. She smiles against pale skin, now adding her ring finger. It slides in more easily than the first, working together to quicken the pace, feeling the doctor start to twitch and grind. 

"Ah...Ahh..."

"Shhh, try to keep quiet," chides Twintelle playfully. To her surprise, she earns a nip to her ear in response.

Whether out of understanding or out of need, Dr. Coyle finds herself palming the back to Twintelle's head, guiding her in a warm kiss. The sound of their tongues wetly sliding past reddened lips meld with the squelch of fingers fucking her pussy. She moans deeply into the kiss, bucking her hips in pace with the quickening thrusts, throwing away all her pride to chase completion.

Her orgasm builds and builds, slackening her jaw against sloppy kisses, drool pooling and running down her chin, "Mm...ah... Nn!"

Twintelle's own breathing is labored and hot, watching the doctor unravel before her through her long lashes. She's getting dizzy, squirming as her own pants feel soaked completely through. She breaks the kiss, delighting in a thick trail of spit beading between them. "Come for me," she breathes, working her fingers and completely ignoring the strain in her wrist because she'd sooner get sprained than break their rhythm. They're so close, Twintelle soaking in the barely restrained moans of pleasure until suddenly the walls around her fingers clamp tightly, convulsing.

A string of groaned curses spills from the doctor's lips as her whole world shook inside her. She rides out each stroke with a weakening buck of her hips until finally her knees can't quite carry her anymore and she slumps uselessly against Twintelle's strong shoulders. They're soaking in sweat, saliva, cum, tears... 

They stay like that for a moment, before Twintelle pulls out to examine her fingers, completed coats from tips to knuckles. An odd curiosity overcomes her and she nearly brings it to her lips before--

" _Stop that_ ," Dr. Coyle barks, seemingly having regained her breath as well as her senses. She pulls back from the younger woman. Her hair is frazzled and sticking up in odd places, sticking to her forehead and cheeks. She looks much younger, Twintelle thought, but she'll keep that to herself for now. Dr. Coyle takes a little while to fully come back down to Earth. She honestly wants to just run and hide right now, but the way Twintelle's just...standing there with the smuggest fucking grin on her face... No, the doctor's pride wouldn't allow her to run. Instead, she reaches around, grabs two handfuls of plush ass, and pulls them closer together, grinding her hips while narrowing her eyes. "You were extremely rude just now, wouldn't you say?"

"Hmph. I've been nothing but a lady," Twintelle counters, not-so-subtly holding up her fingers and scissoring to form slick trails of cum.

"Disgusting."

Twintelle laughs at the older woman actually wrinkling her nose. "It's yours, you know."

"That makes it even worse."

A sudden knock at the door startles the both of them, making them jump apart as though they'd been burned. "Is anyone in here?" a faint voice asks from the other side.

Twintelle swallows nervously, smoothing out the wrinkles in her silk button-up with her clean hand. "Y-Yes, this one is occupied!"

"Oh... Well, can you hurry up, please?"

Dr. Coyle runs a hand down her face, which is flushed red again to her dismay. The full weight of what just happened is only now sinking in and she's not sure if she should drown herself in the sink or jump off the nearest skyscraper. She must have been possessed. That's the only scientific explanation for her complete loss of faculties. Twintelle, meanwhile, doesn't seem fazed in the slightest. She's leisurely washing her hands in the sink as though this were any other Monday. "I'm afraid we will have to continue our discussion another time," she says, glancing at her...stalker through the mirror. 

"Of course..."

"Your place tomorrow evening?"

"Why not..." Wait, what--

"Fantastique! I will see you at 10 pm sharp," Twintelle twirls on her heel, suddenly looking quite refreshed. One could swear she has a shine to her cheeks. She flicks off the excess water in the sink before bouncing over to Dr. Coyle and--to the older woman's shock--fastens her buttons back in place. "Don't be late. Oh, and," she leans in to kiss her cheek, still hovering close, "use your favorite strap."

"My favorite _what_?"

But the actress is already gone. Dr. Coyle isn't sure how long she stood alone in the restroom completely dumbfounded, but she must have moved at some point because her next memory is slotting the key into her apartment door and kicking off her shoes. She hasn't been back to her own apartment in months. She usually spends every waking and sleeping moment at the labs but just this once she feels the need for total privacy. She must have called off from work because no one thinks to call and check in on her and that's fine. The apartment looks desolate. Like no one lives there. Which is somewhat true. She maintains it so she can have an official home address, but otherwise...

She walks into her bedroom and flicks on the light, taking in the sorry sight for the first time in ages. There's not much besides a proper bed, though it looks brand new, save for the light layer of dust atop the sheets. A little cleaning...might be in order.

Also, she needs to look up what the hell a strap is--

-0-

Later that night, Twintelle finds herself staggering into her bedroom, more than a little tipsy. She'd been high on horny all afternoon and it's only after she'd taken care of herself in a warm bath that her brain descended from the clouds and the gravity of the situation really hit her. 

She fucked her stalker.

That qualifies as a wine cabinet night, doesn't it? She ran through half a bottle, rubbing her temples and asking herself questions she has no rational answers to. 

"What was I thinking? Oh God..."

Tomorrow...they made a play-date for tomorrow evening. She'd even told that lunatic to have her strap ready--oh GOD. Twintelle collapses into her plush bedsheets, rolling around without care for rumpling her clothes or messing her hair. Temporary insanity. It's the only explanation. She thinks back to the way Dr. Coyle clung to her, moaned for her, came hard for her. Heat rises to her cheeks despite herself. It makes no sense. She rolls around some more, as though that'll somehow stimulate her brain cells and she'll come back to her senses. _That woman is dangerous at worst. She's only using you at best. What were you thinking?_

She's caught between blushing like a schoolgirl and cursing like a sailor at her own stupidity. Is there any way out of this mess? 

...did she even _want_ out of this mess?


	3. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> |#noncontober Day 6: Crying|

A rare day off. Well...an early day off. For the first time in ages, Twintelle dons her old sweatpants and tank, the unbranded ones she reserves for paint jobs and spring cleaning. She pushes past the fatigue of the day to thoroughly dust and wipes down every nook and cranny despite the fact she knows full-well the doctor won't give a shit. Twintelle has her pride.

Her home is spotless and in record time, too. Unfortunately, that leaves her with absolutely nothing to do but watch the clock and regret her life choices. Anxiety has been building a great tower from her stomach to her throat and no amount of wine will shake its foundation. 

She's doing this. She's doing this.

It's too late to back out.

She doesn't want to back out.

She doesn't

but

-0-

The labs are busy as always, but Dr. Coyle can't seem to keep track of any one task at a time. She's not daft enough to fuck up anything _important_ of course, but to say she's working with even a hint of her usual feverish vigor would be a bald-faced lie. No one around her can tell, but she can and that's what matters.

"This is all _that woman's_ fault," she grumbles under her breath, earning a raised brow from one of her older assistants. 

"Is something wrong, Director?"

She doesn't hear the man, but his concern wouldn't be appreciated anyway. 

At exactly 19:30, she shuts down her workstation and retreats to her closet--er, room with her personal laptop. A dusty old thing she rarely ever uses because "personal time" has never been on the menu before now, but it's the only device she owns (besides the burner phone...) that's not connected to any of the lab's servers or contains any sensitive data. 

With a wrinkle of her nose she executes Google (because honestly, Google? how pedestrian) and types in the search bar: 

_what the hell is a strap on_

Well, this doesn't fucking help. Every link description is XXX this or PHUB that. 

...

Oh.

OH.

OHHhhhohohoho No.

???

If anyone could see her face morph from shock, to disgust, to mild interest, back to disgust, they'd be almost as confused as she is. 

She folds the laptop down a bit to stare at the wall. Apparently, this strap business is an entire subculture on its own. The world is a strange and terrifying place. She pushes back the screen and gets to work doing what she does best. Research. 

Strap-on dildos apparently come in all different shapes, colors, lengths, and girths. Even the harnesses can't seem to settle on one design. Honestly, some of them look like contraptions for dogs or horses. The more she reads, the more frustrated she feels. Trying to decipher all this nonsense is making her feel like a goddamn alien. What's the purpose of making an artificial penis neon purple? Why is this one so lumpy? Are those studs?? Why? How long should it be? They range anywhere from 5 to 9 inches. Why.

...

_what is average penis length_

...

...Fascinating.

She supposes 5" is the "smallest" size to consider. But Twintelle seems awfully used to this sort of thing. Would she be disappointed with an average penis? Are lesbians into penises. Maybe she's bisexual. On the other hand, the doctor supposes there may be women with penises. She hasn't seen that many naked women in her lifetime and never of her own volition. Hell, she rarely looks at herself naked.

No, no, no, that's a rabbit hole for another day.

Reluctantly, Dr. Coyle eyes the time. Suddenly, she's acutely aware of the fact that this topic requires further investigation, not to mention the time it would take to procure the necessary equipment is more than she can spare, given their agreed-upon arrangement. 

She makes a mental note to reschedule for next Saturday. According to her extensive notes, Twintelle is free next weekend, so she should have no problem clearing a day or two to play out this farce.

Satisfied, she slams the laptop shut and steps back into her private lab for some much needed overtime.

It doesn't even occur to her to update Twintelle on the sudden change of plans.

-0-

_This is fine._

Flashes of light play across Twintelle's face as she sits alone in the dark on a plush white sofa, her expression flat even during the movie's biggest jump scare. 

It's well past midnight. 

Well. It was a dumb idea, to begin with. It's not like they have anything going on. She should be relieved she's been stood up. Twintelle, successful model, singer, actor, owner of her own production company and winner of several prestigious awards, has been stood up, and that's fine.

Nothing a good bath bomb can't fix.

The next workday, she throws herself fully into the project, surprising no one because she's no slouch. Another day flies by in a blur of lights, camera, action. Gym? She'll do that tomorrow. She doesn't feel like it today. No, today is a pizza and movie day. Wine? Why not, pour her three. Another day passes her by. The party is extravagant, with celebrities from all over the world exchanging tales and lies. Twintelle is fitted in her most flattering black dress with the split down the side, hanging off the producer's arm with a glass of wine. 

They're laughing about something or other, but she's lost track of the conversation. Not because she's distracted or tipsy. She's just lost in thought about her next upcoming project. So much to look forward to. Yes, her career is really cracking.

...

Cracking?

"It's cracking!"

Twintelle snaps back to the present moment, blinking at the many faces staring at her in shock. "I'm sorry?"

"Your glass," one of them points to her hand where a small trickle of blood rolls down from what appears to be her broken wine glass.

"Oh my goodness," another actress gasps. "Somebody get a doctor!"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Twintelle smiles reassuringly as she sets down the glass and covers the wound. "If you'll excuse me..."

Well.

Maybe she's not as fine as she thought.

-0-

"Dr. Coyle! Th-there's! Um! Uh!"

"Spit it out," Dr. Coyle says without any actual annoyance. She's focused on the fluctuating charts on her monitor, only half paying attention to the world around her.

Mechanica on the other hand is radiating fangirl energy, practically bouncing off the walls. "Guess who's here?!"

"I don't know. Who."

"You can to guess," Mechanica does a strange little wiggle dance.

Dr. Coyle sighs, deciding to humor the girl for once, and drops her chart to give her a flat, expectant look. "Ribbon Girl."

Mechanica freezes up a moment before her lips widen into the goofiest grin the doctor's ever seen. "Hehe, more like someone who can introduce me to Ribbon Girl~"

"Her agent?"

"No!" The brunette looks downright exasperated with her self-proclaimed mentor. Dr. Coyle just shrugs back at her with a curl of her lip. _You told me to guess!_ Mechanica plants both hands on her hips. Her body language is screaming 'DUH'. "Someone you've been personally _stalking_ for weeks."

Oh.

"Why didn't you say so," Dr. Coyle stalks past the girl who's just thrown her hands up in the air. 

Indeed, there's a crowd gathering outside the compounds of ARMS laboratory. They're all ecstatic to be shoved together like sardines, some of them donning the trademark Twintelle masks. Dr. Coyle stuffs her hands in her lab coat pockets, slightly bemused at the spectacle. Her fans knew better than to swarm her in public. Twintelle needs to learn to be discreet if she can't even disperse this level of fanatics. She probably gets stalked all the time.

Heh.

Dr. Coyle taps a few commands into her phone, seconds later the anti-fan sprinkler systems kick into gear, showering the startled crowd with a mysterious green substance. It's as harmless as water, but they don't know that. "Break it up, people," she orders, tapping another command into her phone for the mechanisms to cease.

Twintelle stands alone, still holding a book with a now-soaked autograph and a pen in hand. She appears thoroughly unimpressed with the fact her pastel yellow turtleneck dress now has spots.

"What, you stalking me now?" Dr. Coyle smirks, shoving her phone back in her coat pocket.

"I'm surprised you showed up," Twintelle nonchalantly closes the book and slips the pen into her designer handbag. 

The doctor cocks her head to the side, eyebrow raised. "You do realize I work here."

"I am aware of that," Twintelle sighs while folding her arms. "I am referring to your disappearing act last week." Dr. Coyle blinks in response, her smirk dropping into an unreadable mask. The two stare at each other in silence, stretching on for the most awkward minute in Twintelle's life before the actress finally snaps. "You were supposed to meet me at 10?"

Dr. Coyle continues to stare, though her brows draw together. 

"What is so confusing to you?"

"I should ask you that," the doctor frowns. "Our date isn't until Saturday."

"..."

"..."

"Non, non, non, you are confused," Twintelle holds a hand to her head in advance of the impending headache. "You skipped out on our date."

"Do you have a time machine I'm unaware of?" Dr. Coyle snaps, growing tired of the actress's mind games. That's _her_ forte, dammit!

After another minute of awkward silence and Twintelle rubbing her temples, the actress relents with a heavy sigh. "Saturday."

"Saturday."

"You will pick me up?"

"I will pick you up."

"Time?"

-0-

Dr. Coyle wraps up her day without incident, bidding farewell to her fellow overtimers before making the boring drive to her apartment. Her mind has been turning out the day's events over and over trying to find the missing piece. Twintelle isn't the gaslighting type, but the green-haired woman certainly felt like she was going crazy.

She brews some coffee and gets to work wiping down the kitchen counters.

They definitely planned for Saturday, didn't they?

Squatting in front of a neglected bookshelf with a feather duster, the right brain cells suddenly click into place. Right. They never actually discussed her change of plans, did they?

...

Shit! Her cheeks light up a deep shade of pink. 

_She must think I'm crazy._

Not that that's anything new...

-0-

Twintelle slides further into the bath, staring blankly at the bathroom wall. They both called it a "date", didn't they? She definitely didn't mishear that, did she? Dr. Coyle plans to pick her up at ten in the morning. In the morning. Sex doesn't happen in the morning, does it? What time is it now?

Out of nowhere, her heart starts thumping hard in her chest. 

It's a date...

She's not excited or anything.

There's nothing to be excited about. Who'd be happy to see their stalker for goodness sake. She pats a hand to her breast, willing the muscle to stop beating so hard. She focuses on the soft lavender scent of the bubbles bunching around her knees till the beats even out to calm because she _refuses_ to be excited.

Hm. Good. That's enough time in the tub. She steps out before draining the water and wrapping a fluffy towel neatly around her hair. 

She's ready exactly five minutes before their appointed meeting time, primped and perched atop a kitchen barstool looking for all the world like a famous painting. She carefully arranged her outfit so as not to appear to over-eager, because she's really not. Just a simple cream-colored button-up and brown slacks with matching heels that have a red underside for that pop of color--ugh, she's really not excited. She just threw on any old accessories and a teensy spritz of her favorite signature perfume _that's all._

_Bing Bing_

Twintelle jumps in her seat, nearly falling over. Is it that time already?! She scrambles for her purse, double-checking she's got everything in order and it doesn't hurt to check for any stray wrinkles, oh and one quick glance over in the mirror on the way to the door--

"You're here early," Twintelle drawls as she opens the door to find her d-date standing beside the gate with her hands in her pocket, her back facing the front door. 

"I'm on time," Dr. Coyle corrects, raising her arm as if to point to her wristwatch. 

"I'm surprised you showed at all," she huffs in response. 

Twintelle sashays up to the gate, inwardly pleased to see the doctor put some thought into her dress today. A smart black turtleneck and black skirt that split at the knees, and surprisingly a pair of black heels. It's the most feminine style she's ever seen on the older woman and she must admit she quite likes it.

As much as she can like any stalker's fashion sense, she supposes.

It's while they're buckling themselves in that the thought occurs to her, "Where are we going, exactly?"

"I don't know, you tell me. This was your idea." Dr. Coyle adjusts her rearview mirror and backs out of the unnecessarily long driveway.

"Actually, this was _your_ idea."

The car shifts into drive. " _You_ started this whole thing."

Twintelle twists around in her seat, eyes wide and accusatory. "Non, _**you**_ started this _whole thing_."

They pull onto a highway, Dr. Coyle somehow managing to keep her eyes on the road while her temper flares, voice raising. "You _literally_ fucked me in a public toilet."

The actress shrinks back with a blush, suddenly very interested in whatever's outside the passenger side window. "You stalked me for _months_."

"ONE month."

"Yes, because that is so much better."

"Like you're so innocent. Let me ask you something, Princess," Dr. Coyle side glares at her passenger through narrowed eyes. "How many stalkers have you fucked, hm?"

"E-Excusez-moi?!" Twintelle's back to gawking at her, mouth wide open in shock.

Dr. Coyle smirks, even as she has to swerve out of the way of some dumbass drifting lanes. "You seem used to it, is all."

"Used to what?" Twintelle's tone is low and even, a silent warning to watch your step.

And stepping is what the doctor does best. "Sleeping around."

...

Complete silence crashes over them as their car meanders along through the hum of morning traffic hums along. Dr. Coyle is simply following the flow of traffic with no particular destination in mind. She's forgotten all about the purpose of the drive, in fact, more immersed in her mental plans for that evening.

"Stop the car."

The doctor cocks an eyebrow and asks sarcastically, "Here?"

Twintelle unbuckles her seat belt and opens the door, causing her driver to panic, shouting at her to close the fucking door. They swerve dangerously through traffic as Dr. Coyle roughly grabs the actress's blouse, as though she fully expects the woman to dive out of a speeding car. "Put your fucking seatbelt back on!" her voice thunders, about to throw out a few more choice expletives when her eyes catch sight of flashing red and blue in the rearview mirror.

-0-

"..."

"..."

_beep beep_

The sound of a car unlocking.

"..."

"..."

"I'm sorry."

Dr. Coyle rolls her head to the side in a blank stare, letting her seatbelt zip past her, snapping in place. Currently, they're sat in the car parked in Twintelle's driveway. "Sorry for?"

"For... nearly getting you arrested... for reckless driving."

"Mhm."

Twintelle nervously eyes the multitude of tickets resting on the dash, twiddling her fingers together. A habit she had in childhood that's unexpectedly resurfacing. 

"Twintelle."

"Y-Yes?" The younger woman swallows, waiting patiently for a response that never comes. She blinks, staring down into her lap as the seconds tick by. She feels like a little kid again, like she'd just been sent to the principal's office for drawing on the walls and they're about to phone her parents. When still there is no reply, she chances a nervous glance at the older woman who hasn't moved an inch this entire time.

Though there's something swirling within those green eyes that sets her heart at ease. "I'm sorry for implying you sleep around."

Twintelle pauses before laughing softly into her hand. "You didn't just imply."

"I know. I'm sorry."

They watch one another a few moments longer until Twintelle has to turn back to her lap because there's an intensity building in the older woman's gaze that she can't quite place. It's not anger, but it's still intimidating. 

"Twintelle."

"Yes?" She swallows again, casting another shy glance to the side. Little butterflies flutter in her stomach the more she watches her. Strands of striking green hair falling out of place over intense emerald eyes. The way the light filters through the window behind the older woman plays shadows on her face, making it appear sharper.

Dr. Coyle parts her lips long before she speaks. "I want to fuck you."

"Oh."

The younger woman swallows a third time as her face flushes hotly, unaware of her heaving chest or fluttering lashes as her mind stumbles for something to say besides "oh". Her palms sweat as she plays with the hem of her sleeve, looking everywhere except at the woman beside her. 

"T-then I suppose," she squeaks, then clears her throat. "I suppose we should head inside then, shall we?"

"So that's a yes."

"Yes! That's a yes," Twintelle hurriedly gathers her purse and unceremoniously exits the vehicle to unlock her front door. She's walking too fast for such high heels but the adrenaline pushes her beyond human boundaries.

Dr. Coyle on the other hand calmly exits the car and drifts back to the trunk, opening it to haul out a black studded suitcase. When she looks up from slamming the trunk, she notices the door's been left wide open but Twintelle's nowhere to be seen. Inside Twintelle is silently panicking. She'd kicked off her heels and thrown her handbag heavens knew where to pace about her kitchen trying to sort out her feelings in the next two minutes it takes for Dr. Coyle to reach the front door. 

It's only around eleven in the morning. It's bright outside. Are they really going to do this now? Her heart rate's skyrocketed to the point she's getting dizzy.

The front door shuts, forcing her to half her frantic pacing with a jump. All of this is bad for her heart.

By the time Dr. Coyle enters the kitchen, suitcase in hand, Twintelle is the picture of calm, leaning up against the sink with her arms folded and her eyes half-lidded. "Would you like a drink?"

_Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes._

"No, thank you." Dr. Coyle glances about the room in silent appraisal. Though if she's impressed or disappointed, she doesn't show it.

"I see," Twintelle closes her eyes, her mind racing to find any excuse to delay the inevitable. Then an idea hits. "My, my. What is in the suitcase?"

Dr. Coyle, still glancing about the room as she approaches, stops just a suitcase's length apart from her host, finally looking her in the eye as she holds up the item of interest. "My equipment. Where is the bedroom? Or are we starting out here?"

"What kind of equipment?" Twintelle smiles, her fingers gripping harder onto the marble countertop behind her.

Dr. Coyle deadpans. "Dildos."

Heat flushes her entire face, though she prays it doesn't show. It's getting harder and harder to stall for time. She doesn't even know why she's stalling. Twintelle supposes she must finally admit... she may be in over her head. Getting undressed in front of...this person, in broad daylight. Not being able to hide anything. The reality of it all is much more daunting than she anticipated. And after the eventful morning they'd had, no less. Her nerves are on fire.

"Are you scared?" the question is direct without a hint of mockery.

So much so she feels almost silly for getting so worked up. Dr. Coyle clearly isn't rattled, so why should she be? Twintelle has every right to be confident. It's just enough of an ego boost to push Twintelle off the counter, metaphorically and literally. "Come this way," she says smoothly. 

It's a strange feeling seeing someone else in her bedroom. She's never invited anyone over to her own personal townhouse before, much less inside her bedroom. She can't help feeling subconscious despite the fact it's been cleaned and rearranged three times in the past week. 

Without any preamble, Dr. Coyle pulls off her turtleneck and folds it neatly on the corner of the bed. The action so swift and nonchalant it takes Twintelle a moment to realize the woman's stripping right in front of her. Her pigtails raise at the sight of the black skirt pooling around the doctor's ankles. The older woman is absolutely stunning in her plain black lingerie, and in much better shape than Twintelle expected from a woman her age. Then again, she reminds herself, the woman is a professional ARMS fighter and damn proficient at the sport. It should come as no surprise.

Dr. Coyle neatly folds up her skirt and layers it atop her shirt, glancing over her shoulder at Twintelle who hasn't moved an inch from the open doorway. "Are you lost?"

Her tone, while sarcastic, is also unexpectedly playful. 

Twintelle laughs nervously before gently shutting the door behind her. Her own fingers are fidgeting with the hem of her slacks. Suddenly she doesn't remember how buttons work. 

"Here, let mommy help you." Now _that_ tone is mocking--Twintelle flinches at the pair of arms wrapping around her waist to undo her buttons, leisurely sliding the garment down her legs. Next, she undoes the buttons of the blouse, content to rest her chin on Twintelle's shoulder as she does so.

The said actress is frozen in shock, staring at the pale hands working their magic in fascination until her blouse comes sliding off her back. 

"Pink and lacey. Can't say I'm surprised."

Twintelle pouts because she can just _hear_ the smirk in her voice--"Ow!" Her bra strap snaps against her back. She makes sure to glare extra hard over her shoulder while Dr. Coyle unclips her top, the woman's face suddenly serious as a judge.

"I trust you can get the bottom piece yourself," says Dr. Coyle, seemingly content to leave Twintelle's clothes on the floor as opposed to her neatly folded pile on the bed. She hoists her mysterious suitcase up onto the bed, popping open the locks to reveal an impressive display of actual, real-life, not-fake dildos and what Twintelle guesses to be an accompanying harness piece. They're all pale flesh-colored and arranged in sizes from small to large. The doctor takes a seat next to the display, casually removing her own bra. "Take your pick, Princess." Her eyes flash as they look up to regard the actress. "Don't bite off more than you can chew."

Twintelle covers her bare chest by crossing her arms, regarding the doctor in turn with what she hopes is a flat look. Where is all that confidence coming from? Where is the cute and inexperienced stalker desperately clung onto her in a studio restroom? 

Surely not that much could have changed in only a week?

And besides, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Dr. Coyle shrugs, tossing her bra onto her folded clothes. "I simply mean: stick to what you're comfortable with. You don't want to get hurt."

Sure she's never experienced this kind of penetration before, but she's no virgin. She knows how to handle herself, thank you very much! Twintelle purses her lips, moving closer to inspect the "toolset" more closely. Honestly, it doesn't even look that impressive. She plucks the largest size out of the case and turns it over in her hand as though she's seen a thousand of these before. It's soft to the touch, yet firm. Slap a little lube on it and it should slide right in, Twintelle reasons to herself, turning to see that the doctor is sitting completely nude with her legs crossed, waiting on her to make a decision apparently.

Twintelle points the dildo toward her with a turn of the wrist. "This will do."

Dr. Coyle narrows her eyes, and for a moment Twintelle's afraid she'll call her out for being too overconfident, but to her ego's relief, the doctor merely shrugs, takes the toy in-hand and motions to the bed. "Make yourself comfortable."

Nervously eying the floppy device, Twintelle does as she's told, crawling over the side of the bed and drawing her knees up to her chest as her twin tails subconscious curl around her like a protective shield. She watches in fascination as the older woman puts the device together, attaching the dildo to the harness and fiddling with a number of pieces she can't name. The woman works with a swift efficiency that gives the impression she's done this before, which Twintelle still highly doubts.

What she doesn't know is that Dr. Coyle spent the week leading up to this obsessively practicing assembling the pieces and equipping the strap-on. She certainly didn't care to count the number of hours spent standing in front of various mirrors naked to desensitize herself to her own nudity. All so that she could project utmost confidence when the moment came and damn is it paying off.

Though no amount of practice or desensitization will ever make her not feel absolutely silly with the thing strapped on. She's stood in front of the bed with an enormous cock bouncing up and down, feeling like the world's most perverted superhero.

"Almost ready. I know you can't wait to get started," she half-jokes as she reaches into the suitcase again for a bottle of lube. She closes the case, setting it down on the floor along with her neatly folded clothes, and crawls onto the bed with the bottle still in her hands until she's sat on her knees in front of Twintelle. The younger woman's got her knees drawn up to her chest and has been staring like a fish for a while now. Dr. Coyle cocks her head to the side. "I don't see your legs open," she says as she pops the lid off the bottle.

Twintelle watches with a mix of fascination and horror as thick, clear liquid pours onto the increasingly menacing-looking dick. Her heart's wavering but her pride won't let her say "no". She's in too deep.

Dr. Coyle thoroughly coats her new appendage in copious amounts of lube as she suspects it will be a snug fit, to say the least, before glancing up at Twintelle with an arched brow. "...What's the matter. Changed your mind?"

 _Yes._ "Of course not," Twintelle says stubbornly, slipping off her panty and tossing it overboard, though her legs remain drawn together.

"Good," Dr. Coyle grins, looking positively wicked. "Then open wide."

Twintelle snaps, "You could be a little less crude about it." Once again, her nerves are on fire. Her heart's slamming against its cage the closer the doctor gets. Pale hands rest on her knees and as they're parted, it feels like everything's moving in slow motion. The idea of being penetrated...waiting in anticipation... she's wet at the thoughts, yes. But she's also terrified and out of her depth. 

She gasps as fingers reach down to her entrance, sliding in with little effort. The doctor hums, looking up into her eyes with a serious look. "You want some kind of foreplay first, or do you think you're ready?"

F-Foreplay? Like kissing? Twintelle forces her shoulders to relax as she leans back against her mountain of pillows. "Do whatever you like, darling." _I feel trapped._

Dr. Coyle carefully guides the head to the woman's entrance before eyeing her closely. She pushes in slowly, earning a quiet gasp, but otherwise, Twintelle is perfectly still, head tilted down so all she could see of the actress's face are her long, downturned lashes. Dr. Coyle steadies her other arm at the woman's side and pushes deeper. As she expected, it's a tight fit, girth-wise, but Twintelle seems to be taking it all in stride, so she takes a chance and sinks deeper. She's half-way in when the young woman latches onto her shoulders, her body faintly trembling. She allows herself to be pulled down into an embrace as she gently bucks her hips forward. 

Twintelle is panting softly between her neck and shoulder, her arms sliding further along so he's hugging the doctor's upper back. 

_Almost all the way in_ , Dr. Coyle mentally notes, deciding now may be the time to pick up the pace. She places one hand on the woman's hip and the other slides up under Twintelle's back. Slowly she pulls back before suddenly snapping her hips, eliciting a loud gasp. Twintelle hugs onto her tightly. It's obvious she's holding back any sounds, which is mildly irritating. 

Twintelle braces herself for the next thrust, but she keeps tensing up, making it more painful. They slide into a slow, steady rocking that sends shockwaves of pleasure and pain throughout her whole body. Mostly pain. It feels like someone's beating a rock into her pelvis. She wants to cry, to make it all stop, but simultaneously she loves the feel of the woman on top of her. Wrapping her arms around her, burying her head in her shoulder. Her presence is soothing even as each thrust feels like she's going to split apart.

"Twintelle, don't hold back," Dr. Coyle's voice is muffled as she nuzzles into the young woman's shoulder. "Let me hear your voice."

"Ahh..." Twintelle's voice cracks as another jolt of pain rock her body. Her whole frame is trembling now and she realizes she can't take much more. Only the words won't pass her lips. _Wait. Please stop._ "Nn!"

Their pace quickens, the squelching sound getting loud as Dr. Coyle seems determined to draw out her voice. 

Twintelle claws a deep gash across the woman's back, releasing a loud, broken whine. She sucks in a deep breath and suddenly it's like a dam has broken. Fat tears spill down her cheeks as she sobs silently open-mouthed, enduring until Dr. Coyle notices the wetness rolling down her neck and pulls back stunned. It's impossible for her eyes to get any wider, completely absorbed in the realization of what's happening.

They're frozen in place, Dr. Coyle staring down at an openly sobbing Twintelle who's brought her hands down to hide her face in humiliation. 

"J-Je suis... tellement _stupide_ ," Twintelle shakily whimpers between sobs.

Dr. Coyle only knew one of those words and she never related to something so strongly. Her face is set in a grim mask as she swiftly, but carefully, pulls out. She starts dismantling the harness, giving Twintelle a few minutes to calm down. Setting the strap aside, Dr. Coyle sits back on her haunches and boring holes into the other with an intense gaze.

Eventually, the crying quiets down to mere sniffles. Twintelle's curled in on herself. She's got her eyes shut tightly as she repeatedly wipes at the tears. Over and over as though she can wipe away the shame and embarrassment. The state that she's in now, no one would ever believe she's as capable and confident as her public persona. Here she's frightened and shattered and quite frankly the sight of it makes Dr. Coyle feel like a fucking rapist.

There's just no way to sugar coat it.

"Be honest," says Dr. Coyle, her voice carefully level. "Do you want me to leave?"

Twintelle hesitates, pausing her repetitive motions to lie limp against the pillows. She sniffs quietly a few times before slowly shaking her head 'no'.

The relief that washes over Dr. Coyle is incomparable to anything she's ever experienced before. She releases a breath she doesn't even realize she was holding. Still, her voice and presence remain firm and commanding. "I need you to tell me what you want from me. I'm not a... a _people person_. I can't read minds. You have to tell me."

The young woman nods affirmatively.

Dr. Coyle softens her gaze. "Now then...what do you want me to do?"

Another sniffle breaks the silence. Twintelle's still too embarrassed to look her in the eye, but she's sitting upright again, and her body language is more open. She's staring down at her hands as she speaks softly.

"I want you to kiss me."

The doctor crawls toward her on all fours until their noses bump together, staring into glossy eyes threatening to spill fresh tears at a single blink. She gently presses a chaste kiss to her lips, soft but firm and demanding. They part with a soft smack. "What else." Presses another kiss.

Twintelle breathes against her lips, closing her eyes so the last of her tears can fall. "Just touch me."

-0-

Months later and late into the night: Twintelle yawns, watching the moving pictures on her TV screen with sleepy eyes. She's wrapped up in a warm blanket on her couch, leaning over the arm as her latest movie plays. "Are you watching," she croaks into the house phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, voice heavy with sleep.

Dr. Coyle's voice is clear and crisp over the phone as she answers with much humor, "Yes, Princess..." 

Alone in her lab, playing simultaneously on her laptop monitor are two videos side by side: On one side plays Twintelle's latest movie, on the other, a live stream of her lover's living room. 

"I'm watching."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end ~ thank u for reading till the end ;)


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